


matters of the dead

by coronaofastar



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (blows a kiss to my pc screen) for the tag wranglers, Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Missing Scene, One Shot, References to Chain of Iron, jesse. it's jesse we know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronaofastar/pseuds/coronaofastar
Summary: “Grace, I must speak with you about something.”“What of?”Jesse took a deep breath. “It is about the matter of my revival,” he said. She was looking at him, now, and he found he could not do it both, to look at her and break her heart. “I do not wish this to become an obsession for you.”Jesse tries to persuade his sister towards a better course, to no avail.
Relationships: Grace Blackthorn & Jesse Blackthorn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 6





	matters of the dead

**Author's Note:**

> I continue to think about ghost jesse blackthorn So Much
> 
> Spoilers from CHOI in the first little bit! It's from the released chapters, but just in case anyone's trying to stay spoiler-free, you can word-search for "the" and skip to there :))

_“Don’t have too much hope, Lucie. Sometimes hope is dangerous.”_

_“Have you said that to Grace?”_

_“She won’t listen. Not a word. I—I don’t wish you to be disappointed.”_

_—Chain of Iron,_ Cassandra Clare.

* * *

The clocks were chiming when he silently manifested in his sister’s room. Jesse tilted his head and listened. _Witching hour._

Of course Grace was not asleep. She was sitting up in bed, leaning intently over a heavy grimoire propped on her bent knees. Her right elbow rested on the page; in her hand she held a witchlight, which provided light to read by. In her white nightgown, with her blond hair loose and long over her shoulders, gleaming like silk _(but especially,_ Jesse thought, smiling to himself, _with that intent little furrow between her brows)_ _,_ she looked like she did when she was younger, sitting up with him all nights with books she’d smuggled from the manor library.

On reflex he glanced over at the bedroom door, half-convinced he’d see his mother’s shadow pass beneath the crack, but saw nothing. Grace had stuffed a length of heavy black cloth beneath the door to keep witchlight from escaping, a staple from their childhood. Jesse felt a quick flash of pride, though it was steeped in sorrow. _Clever girl._

“I thought you’d outgrown your late night reading sessions,” he said, moving into the light.

Grace’s head jerked up—more of a hard flinch than anything—though her face gave nothing away. The next moment, he saw that blank expression wash away, replaced with a childish, shining delight. “The Bridgestocks frown on reading necromantic texts at tea time,” she said, shifting over so he could sit on her bed. “And what merriment have you been up to tonight?”

Sometimes Jesse had stories for her, tales of his association with London’s many ghosts—carefully edited here and there for his little sister, of course; the London crowd could be a rough lot. Tonight, he just frowned at her. “More necromantic texts? Still?”

Grace turned her grimoire around to show him. Words in an unfamiliar language spidered themselves all over the page, and he wondered, not for the first time, how she could read it. A few days prior, she’d had a book bound in blood-red material, something between wax and leather, and the text had consisted of strange runic forms. “I can’t tell you what it says, because the curse on it would burn my tongue,” she said, calm as you please. “But it is an exceptional account, and I believe if I combine it with Marchellor’s text—” She reached round and plucked a book off the top of a stack of two or three volumes on her bedside table, thumbed easily to a place, and set the open pages on top of her grimoire. “—we might have a better working list of ingredients. The thornapple is too temperamental. Adder’s fork, I think, will work better.”

Her eyes had the keen glint of a mad scientist. Jesse tried to smile. “Fascinating,” he said. Grace made a sound of agreement and turned back to her books, and he could bear it no longer. “Grace, I must speak with you about something.”

“What of?”

Jesse took a deep breath. “It is about the matter of my revival,” he said. She was looking at him, now, and he found he could not do it both, to look at her and break her heart. “I do not wish this to become an obsession for you.”

Grace was quiet.

“I am grateful for what you and Lucie are doing, truly,” he said. “I might disapprove, but I am grateful, and I will not stop you from attempting to bring me back.” _I’ve long made peace with that._ “But I must ask you to promise me one thing.”

He met her gaze. “If you manage it, so much the better,” Jesse said. “We will face consequences then. But you cannot do it—if the rituals fail you—then for the love you bear me, if you cannot raise me, lay me to rest.”

Grace’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she was silent. For a long, deafening minute she was silent and Jesse thought she was thinking it over, but then—

“No.”

She began stacking the books in her lap, simple as that, the matter presented and denied. “Grace,” Jesse said.

“No.”

“Grace, I am asking you.”

Grace did not say a word. She hefted the heavy tomes and stood, began to walk over to the chest of drawers across the room, and Jesse manifested in her path. _“Listen_ to me, Grace,” he said urgently, and she pushed through him, the first time she had ever done so; it did not hurt, but he felt an icy shock. He manifested in front of her again, and this time she stopped, clutching her books tight to her chest and glaring up at him. He was just substantial enough to touch her, and he took her by the shoulders, beseeching. “Our family is predisposed to obsession. Don’t you see, Grace? Grandfather Benedict and his perversions; Mama and her grief. I will not let you drive yourself mad with matters of the dead!”

Grace shrugged him off with a convulsive movement. She seemed to draw herself up, a knife of a girl and just as sharp. “I welcome the madness,” she said, and her grey eyes gleamed. “Formally.”

It was moments like this that Jesse felt as far from the mortal world as he ever did. Caught in his own private hell where time stood still and the world rushed on without him, it was moments like this that he looked at Grace and remembered that she was not eight, ten, thirteen, but on the verge of seventeen, as old as he’d been, older than he would ever be by the day, by the hour, by the very second. He had watched her grow up, but did not know when she had, and he knew, then, she would not listen to a single word.

“Alright,” he said hollowly, quiet and defeated. He took a step back from her. “Alright.”

He saw Grace hesitate, saw her waver, and then her shoulders slumped. “I would promise you anything in this world,” she said, low. “Anything at all, but this. I am selfish, Jesse, I am sorry. I will not let you go.” 

Jesse sighed. “You’re stubborn,” he said, equal parts fond and rueful.

“I am your sister,” said Grace. She held out a hand, her books cradled in the other arm, and with some concentration, he was able to take it. “And I miss you every day. Who am I in the world without you?”

“I don’t wish you to be disappointed,” Jesse said quietly. A weak final rebuttal.

Grace squeezed his fingers, lightly. “I won’t be,” she said. “I will not fail.”


End file.
